


Crossed

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, crossed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossed

He moves among the shooters, offering them hand towels, glasses of water, flasks. Shooting isn't his favorite sport to serve at, but it's a nice day and it gets him out of the house. The grouse have been particularly thick today and the air is quite jubilant among the men. One of the shooters, a slight, quiet man unfamiliar to most of them, has been bagging clutch after clutch with precise aim and delicate gun work. Carson looks down the line, furrows his brow. He had thought perhaps this gentleman to be a friend of Lord Anthony's, but he's not seen the two of them talk all morning. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn't seen the man talk to anyone at all. Just click after click of faultless shooting.

He's offered him drinks, towels, like all of the others, but he's waved away with a shake of the head, a flourish of gloved hand. There's something peculiar about him that Carson can't put his finger on, but he feels like he knows him from somewhere. Something about the way he stands, the way he walks. Just — something in the air when he stands nearby, something that speaks silently between them.

He snaps to attention, nods respectfully as His Lordship requests a flask of whiskey, immediately hands over one of the pretty engraved things. Listens with half an ear as he gazes down the line. The mystery guest has shot another bird, slung it together effortlessly with the rest of them.

Carson's not sure why this is bothering him so much; after all, he often doesn't know scores of the shooters at these gatherings. Cousins of friends and nephews of cousins, visitors from London all converge on Downton for the sport and what does it really matter? They're all sir, they're all milord, and he doesn't think twice about where they've come from, who they are. But there's something familiar here. Nothing menacing, which is the devil of it. If he had thought for a moment that this quiet man with his loose tweeds was some sort of troublemaker, he'd have sussed him out long ago. The damnable thing is that he belongs somehow, Carson knows him but he can't place him.

He can't even get a good look at his face, for that matter; as his stalking cap is pulled low over his eyes, shadowing the rest of his countenance. Carson wonders briefly if he's some former butler that's climbed the social ladder successfully. But that doesn't seem right.

The shooting continues without incident until it's done and everyone heads back to the house for drinks and cigars. He gathers up the basket of supplies and waits, waits for the slender fellow to catch up, the fellow who seems to be taking his time, breaking his gun, unloading it, putting it over his arm. Carson waits. And waits. Soon, he can wait no longer as the men have reached the house and he will need to be there to take their guns, to restore them to the racks.

"Sir? Milord? They've returned to the house?"

The man gives him a brief wave, doesn't look up from where he's counting ammunition in his hand.

Carson shrugs, goes to the house unwillingly.

Later, as he's putting the guns back on the racks, after they've been broken and cleaned, there's a touch on his shoulder and he turns to see him there, eyes downcast, holding out the final gun.

"Yes, thank you, sir; good shoot — "

It's the scent. The  _scent_  has been bothering him all day when he's close to — the unmistakable smell of lemons and flowers has been —

He stares, mouth agape, as she tilts her head back, gives him an unmistakable flash of storm-blue eyes. She leans close to him, smiles with a mischievous curve of pretty lip. And yes, it's her, all soft skin and shimmering eyes and he can just see a few soft brown curls escaping their confines. The voice confirms it, rolls over him with its tumbling round sounds, it's wild northern ways.

"Very good shooting, Mr. Carson, thank you. A gentleman could use a valet, however, if you're not busy."

With another sparkling glance from beneath low lashes, she touches his cheek with one gloved hand and then slips away to her pantry, head down.

He lets out a held breath, waits for his heart to stop hammering so painfully, waits for his nerves to stop bolting. He was a valet at one time, yes, and he's sure he can remember how to quickly and efficiently remove stalking tweeds. A flush colors his cheeks, his face, as he realizes that beneath the men's clothing, there's her soft underthings, her corset, her stockings.

Yes, he'll know how to undress her.

He's sure he can remember many things he hasn't done for awhile, now that he thinks about it.


End file.
